


Woke up in a safe house

by sahina



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study-ish, Drabble, M/M, Poetry, do you ever think about their time in the safe house and get filled with yearning? bc i do, panic attack (briefly described)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26184109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahina/pseuds/sahina
Summary: Brown- no,amber, Martin thinks as he stares at Jon’s profile-his eyes, amber, with flecks of gold…Gold. Like the sun? He frowns, concluding it’s a little too cliché. Sighing, he drags a hand down his face, frustration biting in his throat like a cold.Or, a snapshot of their journey to the safe house and their first moments there.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 90





	Woke up in a safe house

**Author's Note:**

> this is very tender i have no excuses other than that they deserve it
> 
> title taken from let's get married by bleachers, a very jm song in my opinion! for maximised softness see mitski's cover of it

The train ride so far has been mostly silent save for a few comments about nature trying to catch up to them outside the windows, greens and browns blurring together, and a whispered, “Is this okay?” as Jon leaned against Martin’s side. There was no verbal reply, but the unwinding of his shoulders and the hand reaching around to cradle Jon’s elbow was answer enough. Truth is, they’re both exhausted, jumping at every sound that doesn’t quite fit the scene around them. In the quieter moments, Martin can almost feel the fog lapping at his heels, can almost taste the mist on his tongue, but then Jon is there, looking lovely in his grey coat and massive scarf and he finds that the warmth returns to his fingers.

He never knew the comfort of being pinned by his eyes before, never felt the intensity of them as bluntly as he does now, and watching the sunrise reflected in those eyes makes him ache; a deep ache sitting at the core of his chest, a sensation he’d forgotten after the months of letting himself fade. Brown- no, _amber,_ Martin thinks as he stares at Jon’s profile, occupied with a cheap magazine the train attendant provided upon request- _his eyes, amber, with flecks of gold_ … 

Gold. Like the sun? He frowns, concluding it’s a little too cliché. Sighing, he drags a hand down his face, frustration biting in his throat like a cold. He loves poetry, he does, but much like all fields of creativity in his life it’s been drained by the Forsaken. He’s entirely aware he’s no Keats, or Siken for that matter, but the passion has always been there– the desire to _create something_ with the thoughts creeping up on him, the ones of appreciation and beauty, but also those of the ice burrowing itself under his fingernails and the dreadful itching the reminder of worms bring.

He doesn’t realise he’s breathing hard until there’s a hand resting on his thigh and a voice speaking lowly into his ear, “Martin,” it says, “Stay with me.”

The world is suddenly too small, too close, pressing in on his chest and filing his lungs. For a brief moment he’s afraid Choke has gotten its grip on him, then his cheeks are wet and the next thing he knows he’s being squeezed against Jon in a tight hug. For someone so small Jon envelops Martin perfectly, even if the embrace is awkwardly angled, armrest digging into his side. He clings like a child to the grey coat, fisting his hands in it, scratchy fabric a comfort under his fingertips. It helps to rub it between his thumb and forefinger, grounding him, along with the solid warmth of another person pressed into his chest and shoulder.

After what he assumes is a couple of minutes he pulls away, ashamed of himself for letting the contact linger longer than it has to. Something else he’d forgotten, he realises, is the instinct of letting go after a _sensible_ time of hugging someone; the idea that no one can stand to touch him longer than necessary, ingrained in his bones and always present in his mind like a clock ticking down. Jon, though, against all he’d learned, shatters it in an instant as he pulls him back against him.

“Is this okay?” he echoes, voice shaky. His hands are trembling as well, Martin notices, where they’re bunched in his jumper. 

“Yes,” he breathes while his mind screams _no_. “It’s okay, Jon. We’re okay.”

He feels Jon nod into his shoulder and that’s enough of a confirmation for him. They hold each other like that for another two stations. Several passengers give them strange looks when they walk past, but for once he’s not deterred by strangers’ opinions, not when there is a man trying to hold himself together in his arms.

The continuation of the ride is in complete silence, not because of lack of things to say to one another, but a hush that comes with weariness. Martin falls asleep at one point, head against the window from cow-spotting, and wakes at their destination with a grey coat covering him along with an armful of archivist.

For the first time since leaving the Forsaken, he finds he is smiling.

Arriving at the safe house takes almost an hour, with a little less than half of it getting lost on their way to the cottage. Luckily, the rolling fields of the Scotland countryside more than make up for their seemingly endless wandering. 

“We should’ve asked someone. I knew we should’ve,” Jon sighs, unlocking the battered door and flinging it open. He drops the light packing where he stands as he takes in the interior. A small puff of dust erupts where the backpack lands on the hardwood floor.

“Basira was very clear on us not talking about where we’re going.” Martin points out as he closes the door behind him gently. The cottage isn’t small, but it isn’t particularly huge either, consisting of two floors and what appears to be a small attic. It’s more than he expects, if he’s allowed to be honest.

It looks like the sort of place that could be made into a home, given enough time, and the thought of that makes the ache return to his chest. Building a home with the person that has haunted his daydreams for the last few years is something he’d never imagined for himself– not even in the aforementioned daydreams. He’s entirely too aware that they will be returning to London before the cottage can even begin to resemble a home, but it’s too late to completely extinguish the small speck of hope living in him, fickle like a flame, and just as bright. The hope that adds to the pressure behind his eyes, threatening to make him weep like a child again.

“Martin?” Jon questions, breaking him out of his musings. He’s frowning, but it isn’t the sort that comes with the frustration he commonly felt around Martin at the start of their time together in the archives, but rather the sort that is accompanied with the ghost of a smile; the hint of a dimple showing in his left cheek. Frowning because he cares, Martin concludes.

Clearing his throat to dislodge the emotion that’s clogged his airways, he shakes his head as if to rid himself of his thoughts, and breathes, “Sorry.”

The not-quite smile fades as Jon frowns deeper, this time out of disapproval. Martin winces.

“I mean, er, let’s look for the bedrooms?” he continues, accidentally turning it into a question. Jon exhales, fond glint in his eyes.

“Sure,” he says. Before he can think about it, he reaches out a hand towards Martin, just like he had at the station, and Martin takes it as if it’s as easy as apologising for things not his fault.

The late afternoon sunshine filters through the curtains that were once white, and Martin can only stare as it drapes across Jon’s face, gentle as mist. It makes the mole on his right cheekbone stand out a little more, and Martin wishes to press his lips to it, like a whisper of love. Several strands have escaped from his braid, falling in his eyes in a way that would’ve bothered him when Martin first met him; making him think of all the times he’s imagined brushing his hair behind his ear and meeting those curious, beautiful eyes of his as he does.

 _His eyes, amber,_ Martin picks up the thread from earlier, _with flecks of gold catching the sun like it’s meant to live there. I wish I lived there, too, with my burning heart, as I listen to him tell me “I was sat there watching fog spill out your eyes, now I only see the sun smiling back at me”._

If he later writes it down on the napkin he’s continuously forgotten to bin and kept in his pocket for two months now, it’s nobody’s business- or, it may be Jon’s, if he ever gathers the courage to share his poetry.

His poetry… It’s a good feeling, getting the words out on paper, or napkin as it may be, even if they’re mediocre at best. He takes a minute to mourn the loss of creativity that comes with the Forsaken, the guitar at his flat that sat untouched long enough for it to gather dust, the phrases and metaphors he immediately dismissed instead of writing down. All of it is gone. But, he reminds himself, he does have the rest of his life to create. They made it.

For now tucking a stray lock behind Jon’s ear is enough and he thinks, for the first time in years that yes, he is safe. Even if they don’t get to make a home out of a cottage on the outskirts of a village in Scotland, they’re going to get their happy ending. Until then, they will be each other's homes.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @mx-wayne


End file.
